


Ghosts That We Knew

by Wolfshadow17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Police, Cop!Dean, Dark Castiel, FBI!Sam, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lilith Being an Asshole, M/M, Murder, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Russian Castiel, Russian Mafia, Sam Ships It, Tattooed Castiel, Time Skips, Underage Rape/Non-con, kevin tran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfshadow17/pseuds/Wolfshadow17
Summary: An AU twist on the love origins of Dean and Castiel - Big Bang 2016Or, Officer Dean Winchester finds nothing but trouble when he crosses paths with one of the Russian mafia's most trusted soldiers, Castiel Novak, when the two must partner up to solve a gruesome case. A story told in three time arcs; past (sin), present (redemption) and future (healing).





	1. Saw the Blood Run

**Author's Note:**

> Written for DCBB as a minibang that ended up being anything but. 
> 
> This story touches on several mature topics - please heed the warnings, though nothing but violence is ever graphic. 
> 
> Artwork created by the lovely emmatheslayer - my profound thanks for translating some of my words into a visual form. 
> 
> -
> 
> Modified Ages: Dean 30, Sam 28, Castiel 32

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

And -

Dean returns to consciousness slowly, laboriously freeing himself from the dark. He’s aware of a muted pain in his right arm, high up, near his shoulder –Oh. That’s right. That’s where he got _shot_. 

He blinks his eyes slowly, opening to mere slits as he tries to survey the dark room.

He tries testing his bonds next, rotating his wrists and ankles to see if there’s any give in the ropes. The rough wood of the chair he’s strapped to scratches at his skin. 

_Goddamit._

Voices ( _Russian_ ) and the creaking of the steps as three men descend and walk towards him.

He flashes them a winning smile.

“I gotta say, this place needs a bit of work. New coat of paint, maybe fix the leaky pipe–” 

His head snaps back with the force of the blow. The thug that punched him, big, husky dude with dark skin, steps back with a grin.

He’s got clunky rings on both hands, and shit if that isn’t low.

But Dean just smiles, after he spits out the blood of course.

“Do you know why you are here?” Asks the second dude, a scrawny guy with some Cyrillic across the right side of his shaved head. His accent is heavy, thick around the smoother inflections of English.

Dean’s eyes flick to him, and to his waist – eyeing _his_ Glock shoved into the dude’s pants.

He grits his teeth. Damn these fuckers gotta stop stealing his pieces.

“Where’s my other gun?”

Big and husky smacks him again, this time driving a meaty fist into his abdomen.

He’d curl over it, but, you know, the fucking ropes across his chest make sure he can only list to the side a little to alleviate the curl of agony.

“You don’t ask questions here. Now I ask again, why do you think you are here?”

Dean takes a breath and, “You know, ‘m surprised I still got my clothes on. Since you vultures seem so eager to take my stuff.”

Big and husky punches him again, fist driving into his side.

But unlike before, he doesn’t stop at one, or two or three. He keeps driving his fist into his ribs.

Dean grits his teeth and says nothing. 

Not when the thug throws an unexpected fist to his face and not when the dude tires of his punching bag not saying a peep and goes for a crowbar all too conveniently lying on a rickety table just feet from where Dean’s been hogtied.

The first swing Dean takes as quietly. The second too.

The third brings out a raspy exhale and the fourth wrenches a cut-off yell when Dean feels something in his side just _give_.

Breathing becomes inhalations and exhalations of pure fire and he shuts his mouth tight, drawing in air through his nose as gently as he can manage.

He blinks slowly.

Big and husky smiles, practically salivating, and goes to swing again, _fuck–_

There’s a hand on the crowbar, sudden and swift, and the dude–

 

“ _Prival_.”

 

–Stops.

 

Dean blinks quickly, trying to wrest his brain from the pain and back to the situation at hand, namely, how to get out of it.

The third guy…the third guy is _different_. He’s wearing a suit and a tan trench coat of all things but his _eyes_ – an electric blue, shadowed, cold and hard.

Dean flicks his gaze down, notes various details in quick succession.

There are no tattoos on his hands – likely no prison time. He’s shorter than the other two and his attire, loose as it is, betrays nothing of his strength. 

Most telling of all however, is how quickly big and husky _stopped_ as soon as the order was given. Because that’s what it was, an _order_. 

Dean just smiles at the new guy, and throws in a wink just because.

“So, blue eyes, got tired of waiting for your turn?”

The guy says nothing, merely turns to the lanky dude and tells him something in rapid-fire Russian. His voice is deep and gravelly – it reminds him of the rumble of thunder.

Something about it stirs Dean’s memory – the thought flies from his mind when Lanky grins viciously at him before disappearing up the stairs.

Big and Husky steps back and blue eyes steps up to the batting plate. _Ah, here we go._

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black leather case. He opens it with a flick of his wrist.

Dean stares at his own face, notes that the photo is flecked with red.

“It’s a convincing badge, to the untrained eye. But you’re not FBI.”

  1. _Blue eyes has no accent whatsoever – and this is important, cause the Russians use people like this, people that can blend in well, for the big stuff, the kind of stuff he’s been looking for._
  2. _Shit._



“Well why not? Too handsome?” 

The guy just tosses the badge on the ground.

“You’re not FBI, but you _are_ law enforcement. I’m guessing a cop. And not from this state either. Otherwise, why bother with a fake federal badge if you already had jurisdiction?”

Dean is smart enough to realize when he’s well and thoroughly fucked. He knows when he’s up against a formidable opponent.

And in this situation? Dean’s the mouse and the canary all in one.

And blue eyes? Blue eyes is the fucking cat.

 

This is what he gets for coming back to Kansas.

 

* * *

 

_Then:_

_When Dean is 4, his father shoves his baby brother into his arms and orders him outside._

_Dean hesitates. He hesitates because smoke is starting to fill the room, and it’s getting hotter, and he has no idea where his mother is._

_He hesitates because he feels that he’s paralyzed._

_John yells at him again, “Go!” And Dean listens. He runs, choking on smoke and fear alike, clutching his brother to his chest._

_When he’s outside, a good distance away from the house, he can finally see the full breadth of what’s happening – can see the orange flames eating away at everything he’s known._

_His father emerges, coughing so hard his body shakes with the force of it._

_In his arms is his wife, chest unmoving._

_Dean watches his father try to bring his mother back to life. Watches him try to breathe for her, watches him fall apart when he can’t._

_When Dean is 4, he feels the price of failure, and promises himself that he will never fail Sam, so help him God._

_When Sam is 7, he loses a fight at school._

_He’s pretty small for his age, and he loves learning – a combination that apparently makes him an attractive target to bullies._

_He’s got his nose buried in a book when Barry Cook slumps into the seat across from him and smears his meatball sub on the pages Sam is reading._

_“Oops,” Barry sneers, loudly, and the whole cafeteria seems to go silent, all watching whatever will unfold._

_Usually, Sam lets things go. When he’s shoved in the hallway, when his books are knocked from his hands, when small paper wads are chucked at his head during class._

_Sam doesn’t like violence, doesn’t like the loss of control. But the book was a gift from a beloved teacher – it’s been cared for through constant moves and motel rooms and a father who will make him clean the guns if he catches his youngest doing something as useless as reading -_

_– Sam explodes upwards before he realizes what he’s doing. In a haze of red he’s in Barry’s face and Barry in his as they wrestle for control in a midst of punches and kicks – Barry gets the upper hand when he pulls at Sam’s hair (dirty, dishonorable)._

_Sam ends up on the bottom, below Barry’s weight as the larger child swings three successive punches at Sam’s face._

_His head impacts against the cafeteria linoleum with each blow. On the third, darkness._

_When he wakes up in the hospital, he keeps his eyes shut. His father’s angry voice is to the left of him – “You were supposed to keep an eye on him! I don’t care how long it takes for him to wake up. You’re going to sit there, and wait. Is that clear?”_

_“Yes sir.” Dean. Tame and quiet._

_Sam all but holds his breath until he hears his father leave._

_He blinks awake slowly, hoping his performance is convincing._

_“Sammy?”_

_Dean gets out of the chair, and moves forward._

_He’s holding himself gingerly, and his smile is wan. When he gets close, Sam notes the beginnings of a bruise across his brother’s cheek._

_When Sam is 7, he sees the price of failure, and promises himself that his mistakes will not radiate (failure is unbecoming a Winchester)._

_When Castiel is 9, he’s sold from the orphanage, along with eleven other kids._

_His mother has been dead for 4 years. He never knew his father. His siblings have been scattered across Russia, and he keeps himself from wondering about them – it aches too much. Although that ache is already fading._

_There’s not much at the orphanage. It’s run-down and cold. The food (on days they are lucky to have enough to go around) is tasteless and un-filling. Things are always getting stolen, and the kids have formed small gangs._

_And still, Castiel is grateful that he has a place to sleep. He has a few friends, mostly fellow bunkmates. But he is an otherwise solitary child._

_The others are curious. Their favorite game is to go around and share how they ended up at the orphanage, making light of their tragedies he supposes, helps. Castiel disagrees. Forgetting, now that’s the key. Locking it all away until time can seep in and steal it._

_(Steal what away? He sees his mother, dying slowly, painfully. Sees his own hands around a cup, trying to get her to drink – sees Gabriel grabbing him roughly, pulling him back. Sees the state officials dragging them away, his siblings, him in another direction. Sees–)_

_Castiel is an observer, a watcher. It’s how he knows before the others when it happens._

_He ducks down, but not before the director has seen him, fixed him with a narrow gaze._

_“Vzyat' yego, u nego yest' krasivyye glaza.”_

_He wonders how much they were worth, all twelve of them. Where they bought and paid for in rubles or dollars? Favors? Liquor?_

_He tries to run, of course. He’s seen these men lurking around before – the children they take don’t come back._

_He makes it back to the dormitories, slides on his belly under the bed, presses a fist to his mouth to still his frantic breaths._

_They find him anyway._

_When Castiel is 7, he knows that he will pay the full price of his failure, (“take him, he has pretty eyes.”)._

* * *

 

Sam hasn’t spoken to Bobby in about 5 years, give or take. He stopped talking to him after - 

The ringing wakes him. For a moment, he thinks the noise is part of a dream, but when it doesn’t stop, he throws his arm to the bedside table and snatches his phone, blinking against the harsh light of the screen in the darkness.

He takes a moment to clear his throat, let his brain readjust to wakefulness, and answers the phone.

“About time, boy. I’ve called you twice already.” 

Bobby sounds the same, and that’s a punch to the gut, bringing back all sorts of things Sam thought he’d long buried.

“Sorry, um, just wrapped up a long case. What is it?” 

Sam sits slowly, and runs a hand through his long hair. 

A huff on the other end. Hesitation. Bobby preparing himself to say something Sam already knows he doesn’t want to hear.

“It’s Dean. He’s missing.”

Sam doesn’t know why it happens, but his first response is a gruff laugh.

“Bobby, it’s _Dean_. He could be holed up in some bar or–” 

“We found blood, a good amount of it. DNA says it’s a match.”

Bobby sounds testy now, defensive. Something curdles in his stomach, dark and foreboding.

“Bobby–”

“He was off the reservation, following a gruesome case next state over on his own. Some pretty twisted shit, son. I’m…”

Sam closes his eyes.

 _I’m afraid._  

Of all the reunions and do-overs he’d imagined, this isn’t it, not by a long shot.

But Dean is somewhere, in trouble ( _maybe dead, oh God_ ), and Sam is still his brother, no matter all that went down between them.

“I’ll catch the next flight out. Can you send me whatever info you have?”

The rest of the conversation passes by in a blur. Sam’s shaking with the adrenaline of what he now knows, and he feels a familiar ( _hated_ ) sense of dread nestling itself in his chest.

 _I’m afraid_.

He snatches his laptop and buys a one-way to Colorado.

 

* * *

 

 

When Dean wakes up again, it’s to one of the most heavenly smells in the entire universe. 

And sure, the staleness of mildew and the coppery tang of his own blood kind of ruin the mood but hey, he’s trying to keep his chin up, who knows how long he has before the Russians decide he’s more trouble than he’s worth? 

He rolls his head to the left, sees that his shoulder has been wrapped up, not without some surprise.

But then again, if they’re trying to keep him alive for more questioning, it’s certainly a logical next move.

“Tryin’ your hand at playing doctor now?”

Blue eyes doesn’t look at him, attention riveted to his phone. 

Dean chances a look at the greasy bag (burger and fries, he knows it in his gut) sitting on the table that also most likely holds the torture tools he’ll become familiar with soon. 

Oh the fucking irony. 

The Russian finally looks up, stowing his phone in his pocket. He reaches to the table and takes the bag, walking up to Dean.

In one fluid move, a blade drops from his sleeve – a wicked looking, long, triangular thing that gleams silver. 

Dean swallows thickly. _So, dinner and a show_.

The next thing he knows, the guy has sliced through the ropes tying Dean’s forearms to the chair’s armrests. 

Feeling returns to the numb limbs in painful prickles of renewed sensation and Dean chokes back a gasp. 

The Russian plops the bag on Dean’s lap, careful in keeping his distance. 

“How’d you know what I’d like?” _And, why the fuck would you care?_  

“Your wallet. It’s full of receipts from diners.”

And it could be poisoned and maybe they all spit in it but Dean just opens the bag and takes out the burger, mouth watering because it’s been _days._  

It’s awkward, getting the thing to his mouth with his upper arms and chest still tied up tight, but Dean gets it done. 

“What, no pie?” 

The words come out garbled around a mouthful of food. And yet, there’s a note of amusement in the Russian’s tone when he responds. 

“Maybe if you cooperate.” 

This is totally a good cop, bad cop type of situation, Dean knows it in his core, but he continues to shovel the food into his mouth. He’ll need his energy for when bad cop bit starts up again. 

It feels weird to have someone watching him while he eats, and the fuller he gets the more his logical brain begins to take over the survival instinct of sating hunger.

“You some kind of voyeur?” Dean asks as he starts on his fries. 

The Russian grunts out what could pass as a laugh, and shakes his head.

“Your mouth will get you into trouble.” 

“With who? Your buddies? Way I see it, I’m already in the fire. Might as well enjoy the tan.”

The guy’s eyes narrow at that, and whatever joviality he seemed to have earlier disappears, replaced with that cold, calculating look that makes him seem so dangerous. 

He removes his trench coat and suit jacket, slips off his blue tie and pushes up his sleeves. His arms are decorated in tattoos – skulls and stars and crosses, a myriad of other images that Dean knows have a plethora of meanings – his time with the gang unit rushes back in snippets. 

Most of all, he recognizes the manacles, dark black, inked around the guy’s wrists. _Prisoner for life – total devotion to the mob. No mercy for cops. No mercy for anyone._

Dean stops eating. With a buck of his knee he sends the mostly empty bag to the floor. 

“Is the fun about to get started?” His voice is vicious, incendiary, practically poking the bear, so to speak. 

The Russian glares at him, clearly not amused with Dean’s arrogance and bravado. 

“You will not last. The more you deny to speak, the deeper you dig your grave.” 

“Yeah well, I’m a big guy. I’ll need it plenty deep.” 

“If you cooperate, you will be set free.” 

Dean doesn’t even try to reign in his laughter. 

“Right. I’m not a fucking idiot. As soon as you get what you want out of me, all I’m getting is a bullet to the head.” 

“It will be fast. There are slower routes to take.” 

Dean grits his teeth and squares his shoulders. Feels the food in his stomach sit ill. 

“You wanted to know why I’m here right?” 

Blue eyes nods.

 

* * *

 

 

_Then:_

_When Dean is 30, he stumbles across something thoroughly horrifying, all by accident._

_He’s seen some pretty fucked up shit. First in Iraq, and now in the force. He’s in the special victims unit – and yeah, Springfield, Colorado isn’t a hotbed of crime like NY or Chicago or all those other cities that ended up accepting his application but which he turned down._

_Still, the Midwest has its own sickos and dickheads. Dean should know, he’s had to investigate and interview enough of the bastards._

_It’s a relatively slow day, and that should’ve been a tip-off from the beginning – there’s usually some sort of citizen complaint, valid and otherwise, by now._

_He’s chatting with Charlie, the unit’s resident tech guru and pretty much his only friend at the station besides Benny, when the call comes through every channel._

_> > 999 <<_

_> > All units respond, two officers down <<_

_And just like that, the whole station comes roaring alive._

_Charlie runs back to her computer, to help locate the fallen officers._

_Benny runs toward him, black bullet proof vest in hand. Dean takes it with a nod and shrugs it on quickly, the velcro of the straps almost impossibly loud in the din of tense activity that’s taken over the station._

_He and Benny check their guns in silence._

_“Meet you in the car, brother,” Benny says, and he’s out Dean’s office, in search of the keys to their favorite cruiser._

_Dean reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk, way behind a stack of folders. He smoothly slides the colt out and into his back waistband, taking comfort in the cold metal against his skin._

_He and Benny receive their coordinates via the radio. Their sirens are answered by dozens more, a chorus of whining, piercing battle cries – every unit in the area is out on the streets right now, a show of force that thrills some part of Dean’s sense of group belonging and loyalty._

_The blood is pounding in Dean’s ears and this is the part that scares him sometimes – this thing inside him that gets drunk on the chase, the hunt._

_They drive where they’re sent, other teams fanning out west and down. He’s not even aware they’ve crossed into Kansas until their radio starts to pick up the Kansas police channel – they’ve heard the 999 too, and are keeping an eye out. In this type of situation, state lines don’t matter._

_“What the fuck?” Benny’s voice filters through the pulsing in his ears and Dean turns sharply, bringing the vehicle to a stop._

_They’re near a gully of sorts, where the earth slopes down steeply to intersect with a fast flowing river. The opposite shore is full of trees and foliage, their own end sparsely dotted with shrubbery and thickets._

_It’s what allows them to see the figure, clad in navy and black, trying to figure out a way to cross the river, pacing the bank like a cornered animal._

_Benny’s out of the car before Dean has it in park._

_“Hey! You! Stop!”_

_And if he didn’t seem suspicious enough earlier, he sure does after Benny yells at him._

_They guy takes one glance at them – and all Dean can think about is how fucking young he looks – and bolts into the water._

_There’s no time to coordinate or to plan. Dean and Benny make for the slope, sliding their way down. The ground is nothing but painful friction against his ass and thighs, but Dean is driven – no sooner do his feet touch level earth than he’s running forward, Benny hot on his heels._

_The perp is struggling against the current, but making headway across._

_Dean runs after him, ignoring the cold water as it comes to his ankles._

_“Dean!” Benny’s voice is frantic – Dean whirls around – Benny is by some bushes, his head barely visible from the way he’s crouched. He’s standing over a body, clad in blue._

_Dean turns again – the perp is more than halfway there – he stumbles in the water, arms flying up as his body sinks under and –_

_“Dean!”_

_Dean is forced to turn back._

_He makes it to Benny’s side just in time to see the last few seconds of the officer clinging to life._

_Dean tries to read his nametag – has to wipe the blood from it with his thumb in order to see it._

_Benny has moved his head to his lap._

_Dean takes the cop’s hand in his own, a tight grip as he looks into the man’s eyes, ignores the blood gurgling out of his mouth and running down his chin._

_“Hey, hey, Jimmy right?”_

_The man’s eyes are impossibly wide, imploring, begging for something he knows he will not get._

_Dean squeezes his hand._

_“We’ll catch him, you hear me? We’ll get him.”_

_Jimmy doesn’t respond – he can’t. He goes in between one labored breath and the next. His hand falls limp in Dean’s grip._

_Benny saves Dean from closing the man’s eyes. Dean moves back, suddenly filled with the urge to flee._

_Benny stands first, turning right, hand going to his radio and – his whole body goes rigid._ _Dean goes for his gun –_

_“Oh my God.”_

_Dean lunges up, follows Benny’s gaze. Wishes he hadn’t._

_The other officer lies a few yards away, face down, four distinct bullet holes in his back, one in his head._

_His right arm is trapped beneath him, his left extended forward, almost pointing._

_And it’s hard to fully make out from the angle and distance in which they’re standing._

_Even harder to stomach the two small bodies that lie only feet from each other._

_He and Benny move forward, dread slowing their steps._

_They could have maybe tricked their minds into thinking the two boys were only sleeping. Maybe if they’d stayed farther away..._

_But this close, they can’t miss the ligature marks around the boys’ necks, purple and ugly. Can’t un-see the cuts on the older boy’s face and chest, the way the rope around his wrists is dyed dark brown. Can’t shut his eyes to the way the younger’s pants are around his ankles, dried blood painting his thighs, warring over space with blue, hand-shaped bruises._

_Dean lasts only a few more seconds than Benny before he’s heaving out his guts in a nearby bush._

_> > 10-57 << _

_> > Missing persons located, matching the descriptions of Mark and Michael Dwyer <<_

_> > 11-42 <<_

_> > No ambulance needed <<_

_> > 11-44 <<_

_> > Deceased – coroner required <<_

_When Dean is 30, he is reminded that demons aren’t hoofed, tailed things spoken of in church – demons are monsters wearing human skin._

_When Sam is 16, he goes to a party and gets drunk._

_He’s finally hit a growth spurt that doesn’t seem to be quitting any time soon, and his body is filling out with muscle as the baby fat fades from his face. He doesn’t feel inadequate next to his brother anymore._

_Dean would be happier – if his brother’s physical growth wasn’t accompanied by a vibrant streak of rebelliousness. It’s been years since his father’s laid a hand on him but Dean would be lying if he said it isn’t hell getting in between his father and brother’s explosive spats._

_John is an authoritarian through and through, and Sam chafes under it. He feels something in him rear and buck every time John talks about how much his sons will learn at the academy, how much respect they’ll get when they wear blue._

_Sam’s been looking at colleges (college! His father would have a fit if he knew) and programs, torn between law and medicine._

_He’s usually not into parties, but when he gets invited, and when he thinks of how much it would piss his father off, he says yes._

_It’s loud and the sickly sweet smell of weed seems to cling to his clothes. There’s people making out in the hallway and grinding everywhere, a bunch of kids playing at adults._

_He sees Dean across the room – his brother doesn’t see him, too busy sweet-talking a pretty brunette._

_He’s heading to the beer set up in the kitchen for a top-off when runs into Lilith. She gives him a saccharine smile and he returns it, alcohol mellowing him._

_“Fancy seeing you here, Winchester.”_

_They make small talk, facilitated by the beer. And when she tells him that this party’s dead and that there’s a better one not far from there, Sam considers it._

_“Ruby might be there.”_

_Sam’s interest is piqued – he likes Ruby, has since freshman year._

_He thinks of Dean, and how he’s told him to stay away from both girls, how they’re nothing but trouble. Dean always thinks he knows best, just like their father._

_“Sure.”_

_The walk there is easy, the night air pleasantly cool against his heated skin._

_A few minutes after they walk in, Sam feels it in his gut that he should leave._

_The other party was pretty harmless, tame in comparison – the music here is just as loud, but there are other smells in addition to marijuana. Burned metal and strong liquor, sweat and sex._

_Ruby is nowhere to be seen._

_Lillith hands him a drink, “Relax, enjoy the party.”_

_Sam takes it – and drinks it._

_And stays._

_Things get fuzzier, and he feels dizzy and hot. Lilith is nowhere to be seen._

_“You okay, man? Want to sit somewhere?”_

_Sam looks up at the guy, and it must be the lighting or his drunkenness but he swears he has yellow eyes._

_He has about a head and a few years on Sam, and when he takes Sam by the elbow, his grip is strong._

_Sam doesn’t want to follow, but he feels like his body isn’t his, like he’s no longer in control. His mouth won’t work and when he tries to shake his head no, the room spins._

_The next thing he’s aware of, they’re in a bedroom, and the guy is pushing him onto the bed._

_Sam starts to panic, tries to bolt._

_“Relax, it’ll feel good.”_

_Hands push him back, until his head hits the pillow. Hands tug at his clothes and then his skin, gripping and taking what they have not been given permission to take._

_“Give in to me. Say yes.”_

_Sam tries to fight, tries to fend him off. He cries, in pain, in shame, in terror._

_When Sam is 16, he learns that demons aren’t tailed, horned creatures so many religions warn of – demons walk the earth in human form._

_When Castiel is 19, he is a dog that is told to fetch._  
  
_He's been a guard dog up to this point. Things operate differently in the U.S. and he's still getting used to the changes. He's been stateside for a little under a year and his English is near perfect._  
  
_He's trusted - his body proves it. Whatever scars he's accumulated over the years are outnumbered by the tattoos he's been granted – all speaking to his skills and absolute loyalty._  
  
_They have him move merchandise regularly – he's calm and cool under pressure and scrutiny._  
  
_Mostly, they have him work with the women. In Russian, they'd term him an enforcer. In English, the closest term would be 'pimp.' But Castiel doesn't keep the money and he doesn't control where the women go or with whom. He drives them to their assigned sections at a given time and collects them at a given time. He takes the money they've accrued and notes the amount in a small book, which he then hands off to Petrovich and Naomi, the regional leaders. If someone doesn't want to pay a girl or under-pays or harasses for a lower rate, Castiel steps in._  
  
_He protects the interests of the mafia, the brotherhood – he's a guard dog, plain and simple._  
  
_Still, he's not like the others. Something inside him won't let him be. He treats the women as well as he's able. He doesn't skim off their earnings and he doesn't try to take advantage of them. He doesn't call them demeaning things and takes time to learn their names and talk to them. He sneaks them food and medicine and has a steady supply of condoms in the glove box of the car he drives._  
  
_When one of the girls all but falls into the backseat one night, crying, Castiel immediately turns off the engine and turns to her._  
  
_A bruise covers the left side of her face and a cut on her cheek bleeds sluggishly into her hair, blending with the red strands._  
  
_"He wouldn't pay. They're going to kill me. He wouldn't pay."_  
  
_Castiel tells her not to get out of the car._  
  
_The client is a regular and Castiel has already warned him not to mark the women on two separate occasions. It's high time the warning carried some weight._  
  
_He walks briskly through the lounge of the seedy hotel and goes to the front desk, asks for the room number and slides forward a fifty to make sure the clerk doesn't make a mistake._  
  
_The stairs are sticky and the stairwell is hot and smells like stale vomit and urine. Castiel stops at the second floor and shoves through the heavy door._  
  
_Room 243 is near an ice machine. Castiel grabs the bucket sitting on top of it. With it in hand, he knocks on the door._  
  
_"Room service."_  
  
_When the man opens the door, he is greeted by a bucket slam to the face._  
  
_He falls back, hands going to his gushing nose as Castiel tosses the bucket aside and barges his way in, kicking the door shut behind him._  
  
_"You did not pay the girl."_  
  
_"What the fuck, you broke my fucking nose! Fuck the girl, she wasn't good. You fucking idiot."_  
  
_"She was here an hour. An hour is not cheap, and it is definitely not free."_  
  
_The man curses at him, says that he'll call the police. Castiel pays him no mind, moving around him straight for the slacks hanging from a hanger off the door to the bathroom._  
  
_The guy tries to stop him and Castiel punches him in the stomach, driving his fist forward twice. He steps around the gasping man and pulls his wallet from his pants._  
  
_"Rate is two-hundred, penalty for making me come to get it."_  
  
_Castiel shoves the wallet into the man's mouth before he punches him in the stomach one last time._  
  
_When he's back at the rundown apartment complex they use as a base, Castiel treats himself to a hearty dinner of hash. He's popping open a beer bottle when Samandriel joins him._  
  
_"I heard you beat up some idiot."_  
  
_Castiel smiles, nods. "He had it coming to him."_  
  
_Samandriel chuckles, but something shadows his eyes – Castiel picks up on in instantly. They've known each other since they were boys thrust onto the same cruel path._  
  
_"You are worried."_  
  
_Samandriel opens his mouth, hesitates. His English isn't coming along as fast as Castiel's._  
  
_"I know what you do for the girls. I know you talk to them, I know you try to keep the youngest here. I know you try to be good man."_  
  
_"I don't see how–"_  
  
_"But we are not good men, Castiel. We cannot. Good men...they die."_  
  
_Irritation starts to seep into Castiel. He's Samandriel's senior. And after what happened when they were boys..._  
  
_"I am not trying to make you angry or to tell you what to do. I am trying to warn you, brother to brother. Anna is trouble–"_  
  
_"You did not see her face. I had told him not to hit the girls he gets."_  
  
_"The clients like what they like. Some of them like to hit, to be rough. The girls are money. Nothing more."_  
  
_Castiel grits his teeth. He knows that's what he's supposed to think, to believe and demonstrate. But, he simply can't._  
  
_"I am asking you to be careful. When you give the dog too much leash, it tries to take it from you."_  
  
_Castiel remembers those words when Anna runs away a week later and he is tasked with bringing her back._  
  
_It's a test, a chance to prove himself. They give him no other instructions and for a moment he reels at the feeling of being free to make decisions on his own._  
  
_He sets off at night – Anna barely took any money and he figures she'll turn to the one way she knows how to survive. He checks on all the stops that are in his section's control, isn't surprised when he doesn't find her. She's smart, had to be to fool her handlers and the other women, all who will pay for not noticing her absence._  
  
_The second night he fans out further, coming across MS-15 territory erroneously. He keeps his sleeves down, hopes the dark ink history of his service to Russia isn't visible through the thin fabric.  In the end, his nearly perfect English and attire is enough for them to mistake him for an accountant out to score a quick fuck._  
  
_Castiel buys drugs off of them instead, and he passes through uneventfully._  
  
_On the third night, he hits Albanian mafia territory. He rolls up his sleeves. When they ask where he serves, he gives the name of his brotherhood – Lyuberetskaya bratva. They accept his word as truth and light him a cigarette._  
  
_Albanians and Russians are allies, at least currently, and they laugh when he tells them what he's looking for._  
  
_"Redheaded whore right? Creamy white skin?" The men leer and lick their lips, laughing again. They tell him they've seen her on a corner off of Mosholu parkway._  
  
_"Be quick. The salvatruchas have already told her to get lost and if she's still there they'll just claim her and add her to their own. Or kill her."_

 _More laughter._  
  
_Castiel moves quickly. He sets his gun on his lap for easy, fast access and keeps the headlights down to a minimum. The area isn't particularly busy._  
  
_He spots her easily. He pulls the car up to her and she approaches, perhaps expecting a customer._  
  
_When she sees Castiel's face, her own crumples, and he sees the tears that fill her eyes._  
  
_"Get in."_  
  
_She obeys and within minutes they're on the way back down to their own territory, back to the rundown apartments where her punishment will be determined._  
  
_"You could let me go. Tell them you never found me."_  
  
_"You know I cannot."_  
  
_"They like you… Oni budut imet' milost' na vas."_  
  
_Castiel tells her to be quiet after that, and they drive in silence for several miles._  
  
_"At least, give me tonight. A few more hours won't matter to them."_  
  
_Castiel hesitates._  
  
_"I won't run. Please, Castiel. Please."_  
  
_Mercy. What a strange concept, Castiel thinks. Is he merciful to give her one more night? He's not stupid, and he's not naive. Anna has had a string of disobediences. She will be made an example of, and the best examples are the ones that end in death. Is he just dragging out the inevitable?_  
  
_He rents them a hotel room. It's cheap, but not seedy like the ones the clients use. He doesn't know why he makes this concession._  
  
_In the middle of the night, when Anna crawls under the covers next to him, naked, he allows it, and doesn’t know why._  
  
_When she presses herself to him, he allows her to share his warmth, and doesn’t know why._  
  
_She kisses him, almost chaste and shy, and he doesn't know what comes over him, but he kisses her back._  
  
_" Milost'." She whispers in his ear, and his nerve endings come alive._

 _Mercy._  
  
_This isn't his first time - he lives in a world where sex is the only way they know how to share some measure of comfort._  
  
_But this night, he takes his time. He is gentle, and focuses on her pleasure alone. He trails kisses down her chest and stomach, caressing her skin. He moves down, trails licks across her thighs as he parts them slowly. When he reaches her, he gives her one broad swipe of his tongue and she tangles her fingers in his hair, calls his name in a breathless plea._  
  
_He doesn't know how long he drags it out, how long his mouth is buried around her._  
  
_When she peaks, Castiel runs his hands across her thighs even as they tighten around his head almost painfully. He holds her as she comes down._

 _In the morning, they drive in absolute silence._

_No sooner does he get her through the door than her handlers, the two men who keep track of the women at night, grab her by the hair and curse at her._

_She screams and tries to fight and Castiel watches, mute and still._

_They drag her like that to Naomi’s office, as the other women watch from their rooms._

_They toss her at Naomi’s feet, throw in a few kicks for good measure and Castiel watches, clenching his fists and biting his cheek._

_Naomi is impassive in her fury. When she looks at Castiel, he knows what he is expected to do._

_He takes the gun from its place by his hip, flicks the safety off._

_He reaches forward to pull Anna to her knees. She’s crying, and her body trembles, but when she looks up at him, her face betrays no fear._

_In that moment, he sees her beauty, and his heart lurches._

_“_ _Zakroy glaza.”_

_Anna obeys, and closes her eyes._

_Castiel steadies his gun, and fires._

_(“They like you… They will have mercy on you,” She had said. Is this what she meant?)_

_Later, the other men clap his shoulder, grab him beers. A good hunt, and a good kill. They would have played with her a little first, they say, made her suffer a little more. But, they can appreciate Castiel’s ruthless efficiency – Naomi and Petrovich can too. They’ve been watching Castiel, and they mistake his attempts at kindness as demonstrative of a lack of interest in the pleasures and temptations of life._

_After all, what better guard dog than one that doesn’t lust after that which he guards?_

_The other women still talk to him, though with less warmth. They appreciate that he gave one of their own a quick end. But an end he delivered, and they too have learned a lesson._

_When Castiel is 19, he realizes that demons don’t live in the fires down below – the hell is here, and they are too – he should know, he’s one of them._


	2. But You Saw No Fault

Sam lands in Denver, Colorado around noon – the dry heat makes his clothes cling to his skin and he wonders why he thought layers were a good idea.

He picks up his rental car and hits the road – its 4 hours to Springfield and he isn’t about to waste a single minute.

He dials Bobby at a stoplight near the middle of the trip and puts the phone on speaker, nestles it in his lap. 

“Hey, I’m making my way to Springfield now. Should be there in about another hour or so.” 

“An hour? Where you coming in from? New York?” 

Sam rolls his eyes.

“There weren’t any connecting flights from Denver to cities near Springfield until later today. I figured I’d just drive.” 

“Idjit. Just call me when you get there.” 

“Yeah okay Bobby.” 

In a way, the trip reminds him of all the trips he and Dean took. All the times they just packed some shit into the Impala and started driving, no particular direction in mind. 

He wonders if his brother still has his beloved car. Decides he must – Dean loved that car like nothing else he ever owned. 

He used to tease him about it, especially when he found out his older brother called it ‘Baby.’ 

Sam chews on the cuticle of his thumb as he takes his next eaxit, wondering in what shape he’ll find his brother. 

If Dean will even want his help.

 

* * *

 

_Then:_

_When Castiel is 13, he finishes growing up._

_He lives with around twenty or so other boys, all around the same age. They share mattresses in the basement where it’s cold but at least they have blankets._

_They were purchased by the Lyuberetskaya bratva. He wonders if his siblings belong to other mafias, if they’re on the same side. If he’ll encounter them later on and have to kill them to show his loyalty._

_The Lyubertsy district of Moscow, where he now lives, is lively both at night and day. When the bosses – the brodyaga – don’t send them out to beg, they have them running packages. Castiel is a good runner – he’s small and quick and he outwits the police and the various NGO’s that have taken an interest in the area._

_One time, he delivers all his packages in under two hours, and one of the bosses lets him watch the TV in the common area while the other boys are still out. He can change the channel without starting a fight and watch what he wants – he settles on some sort of nature documentary. The picture is poor but the sound is clear enough, and Castiel tries to repeat the English he hears. He has an obsession with America. In America, he has heard, you can be free._

_He startles when a brodyaga sits next to him._

_“Why do you watch this?”_

_Castiel stiffens. If he gives the wrong answer, he will be in a lot of trouble. Listening to a program in English could be taken as a lack of interest in Russian, an affront to his motherland._

_“Relax, I am simply curious.”_

_Castiel fidgets._

_“I like the pictures. The trees. Nature.”_

_The boss chuckles at him and changes the channel to a boxing match._

_“This is for you. You want to be brodyaga when you get older no? You want to be warrior? Serve the khozyain?”_

_Castiel nods._

_The Brodyaga smiles at him, and there’s something sharp in it, predatory in a way that Castiel knows in his gut means danger._

_Samandriel chooses that moment to burst into the room, nearly breathless with exertion._

_“I have finished, boss. All packages gone.”_

_Two nights later, however, Samandriel is fast asleep a bed over and when the boss takes Castiel’s arm and rouses him from bed, telling him to be silent, Castiel listens._

_His legs are shaking, and he thinks he’s seconds from pissing himself, but he tries to be steady, tries to be brave._

_The boss takes him to his own room, and sets him on his bed, telling him to lie down on his stomach._

_Castiel doesn’t want to. The hands make him anyway._

_He doesn’t cry._

_The boss cleans him up, and his touch on Castiel’s cheek is gentle where before it was bruising._

_“_ _Takiye krasivyye glaza.”_

_He leads him back to the basement. Wraps Castiel’s hand around a candy bar, smiles at him and tells him that this is theirs to know and theirs alone._

_Castiel eats it all, then runs to the bathroom and pukes it back up. The tears come then, fast and hot._

_When Samandriel comes in, still half-asleep, he sees his friend in distress and tries to hug him._

_(“Such pretty eyes.”)_

_Castiel shoves him back viciously, yells at him to mind his own business._

_When Castiel is 13, he wants to die._

 

_When Dean is 24, he caves in._

_It's hard to tell how much time has passed - the room they've kept him doesn't get much light. Not that he needs it - there's not much to do. He's scoured the room on hands knees a hundred items over, traced every single wall and nook and cranny and found all jack shit for his efforts._

_At least its quiet right now. At least he doesn't have to hear the screams anymore._

_It might be an hour later, it might be more, when they come back for him._

_He puts up a fight of course - as starved and beaten as he is he keeps up the quips and the snark and the give-em-hell attitude. He's not even quite sure how much makes it across - how much they understand._

_Still, they hit him anyways until he can't talk because he's too busy spitting blood out._

_They sit him in the same rickety chair, drag a tub full of lukewarm water in preparation for what's to come._

_"Thanks guys. Thought I was starting to smell a little funky."_

_One of the terrorists slaps him._

_"You will talk."_

_"Nope."_

_Another blow - this time to his already tender abdomen._

_"You will tell us where the base is."_

_"Nope," Dean repeats, dragging out the 'o' with an obnoxious pop._

_The man just smiles at him, thick beard curling upwards to match the motion._

_"My men deserve a reward. They captured five Americans. Five! Yes, they deserve something special."_

_"Maybe a bullet in the brain. I'd be happy to present them with it."_

_Someone to his right slams the butt of his rifle into his knee._

_Dean keeps the yell in his throat._

_"They need...release."_

_Dean starts to squirm. He knows what the fucker is getting at, knows what he's starting to threaten. Dean hasn't cracked - none of them have. They must be getting desperate._

_The man laughs again, and he reaches for Dean._

_And Dean flinches back. Shame floods him at the automatic reaction and he curses himself because fuck this guy._

_"Oh do not worry. We will not touch you that way. My men have found someone they like more."_

_And Dean's blood runs cold at that because fuck, fuck, he knows where they're going to take this. He fucking knows it deep in his soul where this is all headed and fuck, fuck, he won't, he won't-_

_The screams start again, from the other room - and Dean knows those vocal chords. Knows who's making the heartwrenching howls._

_He bucks in his chair, throws his weight against the ropes, forward and back and his biceps strain around the cords._

_The men watch him and they laugh at his impotent anger. And the screams continue._

_"We haven't even started yet. They're just preparing him. Beating him down a little. He's quite a large man."_

_The man appraises him, and his eyes drag with something dirty._

_"You're not too small yourself. It must run in the family."_

_The screams cut off abruptly, and somehow the silence is more unnerving, more painful._

_Dean tries to strain his hearing, tries to quiet his rapid breathing because he can't hear over the blood rushing in his ears goddammit. Fuck._

_"There's around six men, in that room. For the first round of course. Then this room. Then the next one over. We've heard that American soldiers are strong willed."_

_A scream - cut-off as it becomes a wail and Dean can't hear anything else, but he imagines his brother begging. He imagines his brother as he was that morning when Dean found him. When Dean was too late._

_He sees how that broke Sam. How much it tore him to shreds._

_The man smiles at him and Dean -_

_Dean opens his mouth -_

_When Dean is 24, he talks, he breaks and he gives in, and learns that it's possible to hate yourself so much that you want to die._

 

_When Sam is 16, Dean finds him the morning after._

_Sam is confused. He's confused as to why his whole body aches. Why, when he tries to turn over and see just where he is, pain spasms out from his lower back and across his thighs, the thighs he can barely move, as they rub together sluggishly, coated in something tacky._

_It takes a few moments for his brain to catch up, a few precious seconds in which he is blissfully unaware of what's been robbed from him._

_And when the awareness comes, it crashes into him, like a highway pileup inside his head._

_The images blur past, the sensations return and he finds that he can't catch his breath because of it._

_Someone is saying his name._

_Someone-_

_Sam recoils._

_His voice is wrecked when it comes out, when it pleads, please, no more._

_Don't touch me._

_Whoever they are jump back, as if burned._

_Sam grasps for the sheets on the bed - soiled with sweat and, and-_

_His name again._

_He tries to focus, tries to-_

_"Sammy? Sammy, I-"_  

_Dean. It's Dean. It's Dean and not-_

_"Sammy, please. You're scaring me."_

_Dean sounds like he's on the verge of tears, and that's not right. That's not right at all._

_Sam tries to steady his breathing. Tries to focus, tries to remember that he's in the here and now, that...that what happened isn't now. That Dean isn't..._

_"Who did this? I fucking swear-"_

_White noise again. Sam shakes his head. It feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton._

_He realizes, belatedly, that he's shaking._

_That he's crying._

_When did he start crying?_

_Dean edges towards him slowly. He's pulling the sheets towards him, trying to help, give him some shred of decency._

_"Can you walk?"_

_Sam nods. He thinks he can. He should be able to right?_

_Dean keeps his distance. Sam swings his legs around, feels the carpet tickle the soles of his feet._

_Getting up is agony - moving more so. But, one shuffling step after another, he makes his way to the bathroom._

_Dean hovers, clearly unsure of what to do. Then he's sprinting into the bathroom, running the bath and filling the tub._

_Sam glances around, on edge, whole body tense because he still doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know who's bed he-_

_The bathroom is sparsely decorated. The rug is a flaming pink and the products around the tub are fruity and numerous. Bath and Body Works galore._

_Sam reads the names on the bottles - imagines their scent, pits them against the stench of blood and sweat and -_

_The water has filled up. Dean is looking at him expectantly, before he turns around. Gives Sam his back (and God, it's won't be the last time for a while)._

_But Sam doesn't know this. What he knows is that his skin is crawling with something phantom, something that's burrowed under, deep - something oily and fetid and oh so dirty and Sam feels the shame so hot in his belly it burns._

_Dean's back is still to him and Sam drops the sheets he's dragged and levers himself into the tub. He sinks down slowly, bracing his palms against the tiled walls like an old man._

_The hot water stings._

_He clears his throat, "Please. Can you...please."_

_Dean seems to understand, even if Sam can't even finish a goddamn sentence._

_Dean nods and walks briskly to the other side of the room - pauses at the entrance._

_He looks back at Sam, then away._

_And that should have been the first clue. Dean never looks people in the eye when he says things that hurt._

_"Sammy...you know you can't tell anyone right?"_

_Sam curls himself around his knees. The white noise is starting again. The crawling along his skin intensifies and for a moment he imagines that he ought to remove it, all of it._

_"Sam?"_

_And Sam understands. Be smart, he tells himself (be like Dean, always be like Dean). They live in a small, conservative town. And dad...God help them both if dad finds out._

_"I don't know what you were thinking. How you got yourself into this. But -just listen Sam. You'll get over it. Okay?"_

_Sam hears the words, but he's not listening anymore._

_It's like he's not in his body - he watches himself reach for the bar of soap. Watches Dean hesitate - then leave._

_The words settle inside him still, thin razor blades that score across his heart._

_When Sam is 16, he begins to think of himself as an abomination, and knows that he is tainted, and that death might be just the thing to cleanse him whole._

* * *

 

“Why do you even care?”

The Russian glares at him, “We need to know what you know. Or, what you think you know. To determine if you are a threat.”

“Either way I end up dead right? So what’s the point?” 

Dean grins, shrugs. He knows he’s walking a fine line, but damn he’s enjoying getting a rise out of this guy. He keeps his frustration in, clearly trying to be reasonable (and fuck if that’s a thing in this type of situation) – the other two would have already pommeled him. 

And if he’s gonna die anyway, why not try to smoothen the road? All his so-called information is shit, but they don’t know that yet. 

“Okay. Let’s suppose I’m in a sharing mood. I’ll tell you why I’m here, for starters, and you keep the brothers Karamazov away from me for the day – deal? Oh! And your name. I should at least know who I’m spilling the beans to, right?” 

Blue eyes considers this. Nods. 

“My name is Castiel. The…brothers Karamazov, are Uriel and Peter.”

“Well then... I’m Dean. As you probably already knew. And I came around this shitty town because I was looking for the fairies. Ever heard of those?” 

Castiel ( _and_ _what the fuck kind of name is that? Fucking Russians and their Catholicism)_ purses his lips and Dean can see a muscle twitch in his jaw from how he’s grit his teeth. 

“I am not here to play games with you, _officer_. I know you’re from the Colorado police, and I know you were all alone when my men found you snooping around. You have no jurisdiction here, and no back up coming for you. For all intents and purposes, you will be our guest for some time. But, if you continue to treat this like a game, you will lose. And your state will find itself calling its third triple 9 in under a week when they discover your disemboweled body in front of the station.” 

The rage boils hot in Dean again – so this fucker knew about the other two officers. 

His gut instinct had been right. 

“You killed them, didn’t you? You or someone in your fucking gang. The whole state won’t rest until they find who’s responsible. Think you and your buddies can stand up to an entire police force? Be my fucking guest.” 

Castiel moves to him in long strides, getting right in Dean’s face. 

“We’ll see who outlives the other, _cop_ ,” and then he’s turning to leave. 

Dean won’t let him get away so easily. 

“They interrupted you raping those kids didn’t they? That’s why you killed them, you sick fucks!” 

Castiel stops at that, whole body going still. When he turns back around, his eyes are pure ice. 

“What did you say?”

Dean laughs at him, an undercurrent of madness twisting it into something ugly and grating. 

Everything that’s been pent up in him since that day by the river, every nightmare he’s had about those small bodies, every reminder of _Sam_ and he just _can’t_ keep it in anymore. 

“They were just kids. Barely ten years of life between them,” And he’s aware that he’s got tears in his eyes now, but he can’t bring himself to care, or to stop talking, “The older one’s wrists were all cut up – from trying to get free, you know, to help his little brother. And the younger one–” 

Dean chokes on it, chokes on saying what happened because fuck if it doesn’t kill him inside. He can’t repeat the ugly word again.

Castiel is watching him closely, and there’s something in those blue eyes of his, something beyond coldness and indifference. Something like _pain_ , and for a moment it throws Dean. 

Castiel seems to realize what he’s shown, because he takes a step back, shakes his head. 

Still, Dean doesn’t miss the way that his hands clench at his sides. 

"We had nothing to do with that." 

Dean shakes his head in disgust.  

"I'm not surprised anymore you know. I should be. But I've been hunting monsters like you for the better part of my life.” 

Castiel actually flinches at that, and Dean is emboldened. There’s a play to be made here, an angle to twist. It’s the blue-eyed man before him, a criminal with limits it seems. The notion of it alone is hilarious, this isn’t some novel about thieves with golden hearts, but Dean is willing to try his hand at bringing a conscience to light – what other choice does he have? 

“You know I came here on my own. Fuck, I’m not even undercover or anything like that. I just…I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear thinking about the, the _demon_ that did that to them getting away with it.”

“Why do you _care_? They’re not your kin, they are strangers to you. You came here for _nothing_ , and you’ll pay with your life for it, for _nothing_. What is so worth saving?”

Castiel watches him, and there’s something resigned and lost in his eyes, something long dead trying to reignite. 

Dean licks his lips, swallows hard. He’s asked himself that before, countless times. 

“I…There’s a right and there is a wrong here. You must see that. And I took an oath to protect, and to serve. It’s honor, Castiel. It’s being loyal to and loving something bigger than yourself. And if there’s anything worth dying for, it’s that.” 

Dean looks away briefly, feeling too exposed and raw. And when he looks back, Castiel is staring at the ground, and for a moment, Dean lets himself hope that his words made it through. 

But Castiel shakes his head, and when his gaze locks with Dean’s, his eyes are cold again, shuttered. 

“Pretty words, and that’s all they are. My destiny has long been sealed, and yours will be soon.” 

Dean just laughs at him. 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not the only one who saw your guy crossing the river. Sooner or later, they’ll catch up to him. And then I’ll be seeing you in hell.” 

“What guy? What are you talking about?” Castiel all but snarls and Dean rolls his eyes, clearing his throat exasperatedly.

“You gonna play stupid now? I got a good look at him too. Sandy hair, green eyes. Russian wrapped around a cross on his hand. Thought he looked a little young, but that’s how you fuckers like it isn’t it?” 

Castiel strikes him then, a heavy punch that sends Dean’s head whipping to the side.

“Who else saw him?” 

Dean drags his tongue around his teeth, then probes the cut on the inside of his cheek. 

He spits blood at the Russian’s feet. 

“I make it a point not to talk with spineless, soulless, sons-of-bitches. We’re done.” 

Castiel looks like he wants to beat him again. But he doesn’t. He simply turns sharply and disappears up the stairs.

 

* * *

  

Castiel feels like his chest is about to burst, like his heart will pound its way out of ribcage.

His mind is reeling – he has to get to Samandriel. That stupid, _idiotic_ – 

“Was it fun? Couldn’t have been though. I didn’t hear any screaming.” 

Uriel is stirring a cup of tea and vodka, leaning against the wall and watching Castiel with a smile on his face. 

Castiel knows better than to be fooled. Uriel has been on his case ever since the cargo incident a month ago. 

He suspects something, and he’s a fearsome soldier, but Castiel hasn’t survived this long for nothing. 

“He is no good to us dead.” 

Uriel nods, conceding, hearing the daggers in Castiel’s tone. Yet his eyes shine with nothing but defiance. 

“Well, _brodyaga_ , you won’t have to worry about it long.”

Castiel stops on his way out of the room. Fixes Uriel with an impatient, murderous gaze. 

Uriel takes a sip from his cup.

“We got a call while you were downstairs. You are needed again in Moscow.”

Castiel feels his pulse pick up. 

In the end, he simply nods at Uriel, making sure he strolls calmly from the room even though all he wants to do is run.

 

* * *

 

_Then:_

_When Castiel is 15, he snaps._

_Having reached an age that the bosses consider manhood, he’s moved up to the rooms on the second floor, where all the older boys sleep. It’s less crowded and he loves watching the sunrise through the dusty window by his new bed._

_It lessens the pang he feels at being separated from Samandriel._

_As the weeks pass, he notices that Samandriel is fading. He doesn’t eat much and when Castiel tries to place an arm on his shoulder, he flinches from him, hard._

_Something in him breaks, because he thinks he knows why the younger boy is like this._

_He pulls him aside, near the radiator where it’s warm._

_“Tell me. I won’t let you go until you tell me.”_

_Samandriel refuses at first, tries to punch him. But Castiel is older, and muscle is starting to fill in his frame._

_Samandriel concedes and cries and speaks._

_Castiel devises another plan._

_That night, he sneaks down to the basement and sends Samandriel to the bathroom, tells him to leave off the lights._

_Castiel slips into his friend’s bed, face facing away from the steps and ratty blanket pulled up all the way to his shoulders._

_The blade pressed against his forearm lends him its quiet strength, the cool metal against his skin comforting._

_It’s an odd weapon – triangular, sort of, and long. He’d found it in the old industrial district while delivering a package. Perhaps the first thing truly his own._

_He closes his eyes and strains his ears, waiting. The adrenaline keeps him from falling asleep._

_Hours pass before he hears a presence behind him._

_A hand reaching for his shoulder to rouse him, another pulling back the blanket._

_Castiel turns slowly, knows the boss’s eyes have yet to adjust to the dark._

_The man doesn’t realize his mistake until Castiel drives his blade through his stomach and drags down, gutting him like a fish._

_Castiel doesn’t pull back when the boss falls backward, not when he tries to choke out words, and not when the other boys start to wake and crowd around him, watching with wide eyes._

_He keeps his hands on the blade even when the other bosses try to pull him away, squeezing his arms and making passes at his sides._

_He holds on until he’s sure that the light leaves the man’s eyes, until he’s sure he’s dead and gone and won’t come back for him or Samandriel or any other boy ever again._

_After that, the debate over what to do with him lasts for three days. For killing a boss, his superior, he should be killed, publicly, so all can see what becomes of one who kills a brother. But others disagree – the man he killed was not well liked, had been accused before of keeping money and talking to the police. He should be blinded and thrown out onto the streets._

_And still others admire his tenacity, spoke of how it took three men to finally part him from his target. He should be beaten, but moved up, having made his first kill and demonstrated that he was a warrior, and a vicious one at that._

_On the third day, they leave his fate to the avtoriet – the man in charge of their bratva and the other five in the region._

_Castiel is surprised by how young he is. He exudes power, and yet there’s something impish in his expression, like he’s in a on a joke that only he knows the punch line to. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but Castiel can’t place it._

_He takes a seat across from Castiel, regarding him carefully, measuring him up – for what, Castiel doesn’t know._

_“I take it you acted to protect one of the other boys? There were certainly enough rumors floating around about that brodyaga’s…tastes.”_

_“I acted alone.”_

_The man grins._

_“Loyalty. Hmm…such a nice quality to see in this day and age... Castiel, right?”_

_Castiel nods and both men stare at each other, neither backing down._

_If the man is off-put by Castiel’s lack of deference, he certainly doesn’t show it. He merely regards the young man before him, considering._

_“You really don’t remember me.”_

_Castiel tenses when the other stands, having finished whatever appraisal he made._

_“You’ll be useful. It would be stupid to waste your talents by killing you. The way I see it, you rid the brotherhood of a weak man, too far gone on his own base desires to properly overlook the training of our successors, our future.”_

_He calls the other bosses back into the room and tells them that Castiel did them a favor – he is not to be touched. Zachariah looks like he’s about to explode._

_Castiel can’t help the surprise that washes over his face._

_The man winks at him, squeezes his shoulder, presses something into Castiel’s palm._

_“You have the devil’s luck on your side.”_

_Castiel looks down, sees four rings fused together – three around one in the middle._

_By the time he can tear his gaze up, the avtoriet is long gone._

_He doesn't get away with it completely - Zachariah would never allow that. The punishment is brutal, and Castiel suffers greatly. But nothing can take his victory from him._

_When Castiel is 15, he makes his first kill, and it feels damn good._

 

_When Dean is 20 and Sam is 18, they go off to war._

_Dean passes it off as duty - he loves his country of course, and he believes in the cause, the fight for freedom. And on rare moments that he allows himself to view his choice with honesty, he thinks of two things. The first, that this is for Sam. That Sam was the one who wanted to do this, that Sam saw this as some sort of opportunity. Dean doesn't give a shit about Sam's reasoning - only the end result. And if this will get Sam away from the crowd that has been poisoning him with drugs, turning him into a junkie - shit, Dean will jump in, no questions asked._

_And still the other reason surfaces. That thing inside Dean that scares him sometimes, takes him by surprise. That thing that thrills in the hunt, the chase. That wild thing that demands adrenaline, is buoyed by the sense of action, of unbridled agency._

_Sammy was always the calmer, stabilizing force - the mountain._

_Dean has always been impulsive motion - the volcano._

_His impertinence and disregard for a authority should have gotten him thrown out on his ass many times. But its his skill, inborn and unfailing, that always saves him, that has his commanding officers cursing him and praising him in the same breath._

_Sam doesn't get left behind. His desire to prove himself carries him far, earns him his own accolades._

_Sam passes it off as duty too - he desires to make a difference, and he believes in the cause, the fight for freedom. And on rare moments that he allows himself to view his choice with honesty, he thinks of two things. The first, that this is for Dean. That Dean agreed to follow Sam into the lion's den, that Dean saw this as protection. Perhaps as penance. For the time that he failed Sam the most._

_And still the other reason surfaces. That thing inside Sam that terrifies him thoroughly, chokes him. That thing that whispers that he'll never be clean, that he'll always be tainted. Maybe he's foolish, or hopelessly naive. But maybe he's right, maybe the trials of war will purify him._

_They take to it like ducks to water, take pride in their work, take pride in the lives they save, and the evils they remove._

_There's more to it than that of course - more complexity than the black and white the military and their country would like them to believe. But for now, when they're deployed, they synchronize again as they unite against a common enemy._

_When Dean is 20 and Sam is 18, they make their first kills, together, t's like the past strifes between them fall away - water under the bridge. All the ways that they've wounded each other are forgotten and it feels damn good._

 

* * *

 

Dean’s station is fairly small, tucked away from the main highway.

It’s the kind of place that seems peaceful – the kind of place Dean would have found infinitely boring. 

Sam wonders at all the changes in his brother he’s apparently missed. 

He runs a hand through his hair before he steps inside, wishing away his nervousness. 

 _Does Dean have a partner? Many friends? Where’s his desk and what does he keep on it?_

He tries to ignore how much of a stranger his brother has become as he steps up to the reception desk. 

“Uh, hi, good afternoon. I’m here to see deputy chief Jody Mills?” 

The officer quickly pauses whatever he was doing – and the monitor is turned in such a way that Sam can see it’s a _computer game_ – before looking up at Sam with wide eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah. Give me, uh, give me a second.” 

The guy knocks over his drink in his haste to reach for the phone. 

Sam catches it before it slips off the desk. 

“Thanks man.” 

Sam nods tightly and waits as Officer Garth (and his name tag is on upside-down) speaks into the phone. 

“Yeah, yeah he’s right here…um, no. Hold on,” He looks at Sam, “Who’d you say you were again?” 

Sam pulls out his badge and slides it across the desk. 

“Special Agent Sam Winchester.” 

Again, the officer looks at him with wide eyes as he relays the information through the phone, then hangs up. 

“She’ll be ready for you in five minutes.” 

Officer Garth looks around before leaning towards Sam, a curious look on his face. 

“So um, is area 51 a thing, or are you not allowed to talk about that?”

 

* * *

Castiel makes it to his usual spot behind the steel mill in record time before he calls Samandriel. 

As the phone dials, he remains hyper-vigilant of his surroundings – he's convinced now that Uriel wants nothing more than to displace him. With Castiel back in Moscow, the oversight of the new operations in Kansas will fall to Uriel.  

Castiel wonders if Uriel told them of his suspicions about the flubbed human trafficking, wonders if he'll be returning to Russia just to die.  

The thought of that empty end fills him with overwhelming fear.  

"Dammit," he curses when Samandriel fails to pick up on his third try. 

There's another phone he could call, one they've said they would only use in emergencies. But with Castiel being recalled and Samandriel apparently involved in the murder of two cops, he thinks this situation qualifies.  

After seconds of hesitation, he dials the number.  

The line rings four times before it’s picked up.  

 _"Castiel?"_  

"Sam? Where are you? Are you all right? What the fuck were you thinking?" 

_"I was thinking that I could give them justice. You gave it to us when we were boys. I wanted to do the same for them."_

Castiel sighs. Finds that he has no answer. 

After a few seconds of silence, he simply hangs up.

 

* * *

 

Dean's wondering if falling backwards with force will smash the chair and let him get free when Lanky comes down the stairs.  

"Heya there Peter, come down for a visit?"  

Peter doesn't answer him but in his trajectory from the stairs to where Dean is trussed up, he looks behind him at least four times, like he's on the lookout for being interrupted and doesn't that spell all sorts of trouble.  

Dean just glowers at him.  

Peter is watching him with hooded eyes and there's something dark in his expression. Distaste curdles in Dean's stomach when Peter crouches in front of him, never breaking his watchful expression.  

"He did not hurt you. He wished not to hurt you. And I wonder, what makes you so special?" 

Dean gives him a flippant grin.  

"I like to think it's because of my perky nipples."  

The answer does nothing to break Peter's intense concentration, other than the smile that crosses his face when he glances Dean and up down as he stands.  

"No. Not quite it."  

Peter reaches for him then, one hand around Dean's neck but he doesn't squeeze or even threaten to do so. His touch is gentle, almost a caress, and Dean's pulse ratchets up instantly because this, this is a whole other ballpark, one that Dean isn't prepared to deal with.  

He tries to move his body away from the touch but there's nowhere for him to go and fuck this, this isn't fucking happening to him.  

"He just wants you for himself."  

"Buddy I think you've got this all wrong. And if you keep going where I think you're going, I'm going to gut you like a fucking bass."  

Peter moves his hand up to Dean's cheek and steadies his face with his other hand when Dean tries to rear away from the touch. 

Peter smiles at him, a lecherous thing, "you have pretty eyes."

  

* * *

 

_Then:_

_When Castiel is 32, he receives orders to take extra good care of the next shipment that is to pass by his region. Castiel promises his best and the whole thing leaves him with a queasy feeling deep in his core._  

_He's used to transporting things across state lines. It's a little more difficult here than it was in Russia – he can't just bribe every cop that tries to stand in his way and it's a little harder to get transport companies in on it. Still, he's managed quite well, and can move most bulk quantities of drugs within a matter of days. Here, in Kansas, it's become much easier because the local police chief is on the brotherhood's payroll. He turns a blind eye to the surge of thoroughfare traffic that stops by the old steel mill and picks up his cut every other week._

_Kansas is poised to become a major hub for getting things from the east to the west coast - it's why Castiel was sent here in the first place. His successes in setting up similar systems in Arizona and Washington caught the attention of those back in Moscow._  

 _He's moved so much over the years. This shipment, however, is different._  

 _It arrives in the middle of the night - one large semi, paint job boasting high quality lumber. He stands back as three of the men under his command get the doors open._  

 _The inside is stuffed with lumber. At first glance, of course._  

 _The three are joined by the drivers as they remove the first layers of stacked planks. Beyond that, there is one small empty space about a foot wide. One either side more lumber – it looks stacked, like the first layers. But upon closer inspection, the wood is fused together._  

 _Containers._  

_Castiel has the men step back as he hops on the truck._

_He presses an ear to a box. Thinks he hears something – voices?_  

_Tentatively, he knocks on the wood, knuckles scraping on the rough surface._

_There's a knock back. Then dozens of them._  

 _His stomach drops._  

_Fuck._

_He's moved coke and crack, hallucinogens and weed, raw materials for meth._  

_Never human cargo._

_"Boss?" One of the men asks, and Castiel quiets him with a wave of his hand._  

 _He knocks on the wood again, loudly, speaks "is everyone alive?"_  

 _"Yes," comes the weak reply._  

_He turns to two of his men, "Get a flashlight. And a crowbar."_

_Within minute they climb into the truck, flashlight and crowbar in hand. He shows them where to open the crate, and after several attempts one side of the box swings open like a door._  

 _The stench that follows – human waste and unwashed bodies – makes Castiel's eyes water, and his men curse and back away._  

 _Castiel shines the flashlight into the box - around a dozen filthy children peer up at him, two boys and nine girls. And children is what they are – they're too small to be anything else._  

 _"How old are you?"_  

_A chorus of replies comes up. The oldest is 15._

_Castiel feels sick to his stomach, and it has nothing to do with the smell._  

 _He has his men give them water and food, and then, the crates are sealed back up, the lumber replaced and the door shut._  

 _The truck rumbles on its way and something crawls under skin, and his heart beats much too fast. He has a crazy plan and it'll probably get him killed but he can't settle himself around the idea of these children being sold to depraved men. He thinks of Anna, and her fearlessness before death, staring at her executioner with nothing short of courage._  

 _He goes to the small room that passes for his office, checks his tablet – it was something he purchased for himself as soon as he was in the U.S. and he's been recording everything that he does. It's a safeguard of sorts, the deadliest kind – secrecy is the most important rule of the brotherhood, and if someone found out that a record of their activities existed..._  

 _He tucks it into the inner pocket of his trench coat, and tells his men he's going out for a smoke._  

 _They hum in understanding, too wrapped up in the vicious boxing match on the TV._  

 _He shivers, nothing to do with the brisk night air, and makes his way to the other side of the abandoned steel mill. With one last check to his surroundings, he pulls the tablet from his pocket, checks the destination of the shipment. It's meant to disappear and diffuse into California – but its next stop is in Colorado, and that's all he cares for right now._  

 _He tucks his tablet back into safety, reaches into the other inner pocket of his trench coat to pull out a business card – it's worn and dirty and a little bloodstained, but still legible._  

_He runs the pad of his thumb across the name, knows he's staking his life. He might be putting this cop’s life in danger too. Does Dean Winchester have a family? A spouse? Kids?_

_Before he can back out, he dials the number and waits through the ringing. A sleep muddled voice answers him, clearly pissed off._  

 _"Who the fuck is this?"_  

 _"There's a lumber truck passing by your state. It's carrying more than that."_  

 _"What? Hold up, who -"_  

 _Castiel hangs up. Takes a few deep breaths._

_When Castiel is 31, he realizes that his soul is still alive._

 

_When Dean is 30, he gets a phone call. At four fucking AM._

_The body next to him stirs in annoyance, and whatshername mumbles that he should turn his phone off so they can get some sleep._

_The phone keeps ringing and Dean, grumbling, drags the thing to his ear, accepting the call._

_"Who the fuck is this?"_

_Brief hesitation on the other line before a voice, deep and low like thunder speaks in a rush, like they might stop if they don't get it out now._

_"There's a lumber truck passing by your state...It's carrying more than that."_

_Dean's brain is still waking up, yet the words hit something inside - the hunter is rising quickly._

_"What? Hold up, who-"_

_Dial tone._

_"Fuck."_

_Whatsherface is mumbling again, and a minute later meager light comes on._

_With the lamp behind her, it's hard for Dean to make out her features - not that they would help him remember her name._

_"What's going on?"_

_At any other time, he might have found the sleep numbed words endearing, maybe even sexy._

_Now, the chase calls to him and sings in his blood and she's just an annoyance._

_It's his eternal problem - finding someone who can keep up, who can not only match his intensity but love it too._

_"Nothing. You should go back to sleep."_

_She tries to get him to go back to bed, tries to curl her arms around his waist. But Dean is already on the move, and she falls back with a disgruntled, disappointed sigh. (In the morning, she'll be gone. And Dean won't call her back)._

_Dean stays up, searches. In the morning he heads to the station early, calls a private meeting with Jody and tells her about the call. After so many years of his gut feelings paying off, she trusts his hunch with little question._

_They assemble a team, begin combing through all the truck traffic passing through Colorado. It's a lot of sleepless nights and coffee pots and frazzled nerves because they don't know exactly what they're looking for or what they'll find._

_The truck comes through around the same time that he got the call - it's dark and fucking cold and they don't have nearly enough power because they spread themselves thin over the possibility of their target coming through three separate points._

_Dean's hopped up on coffee and Red Bull and the thrill. Benny beside him is a calm presence. It reminds him of the dynamic he used to have with Sam back when -_

_The truck drives up. Ignores their call to stop._

_The firefight erupts suddenly, and gunshots pepper the night air._

_It's a shitshow, a fucked up situation and everything is going every which way and Dean's having a hard time of keeping track of his people._

_He's hopped up on pure adrenaline, doesn't even notice when a bullet cuts through his side._

_They open the truck and knock down the timber, step out to cough and vomit when they discover the kids inside, step down to help the small bodies down._

_Small hands wrap around Dean's fingers, tug and squeeze and he's looking down at the warm brown eyes of a young boy, no older than ten._

_(Later, they'll realize that Dean has been wounded, when he lists to the side, falls to his knees. He'll spend five days in the hospital, the first two under heavy sedation, enough to keep the reporters away but not enough to stop them blowing the story up, lauding him as a 'righteous man' and the finest cop in all of Colorado)._

_When Dean is 30, witnessing what precious things he has saved, he realizes that his soul is there, and still capable of good._

 

_When Sam is 35, he meets Dean and Castiel's daughter._

_The girl is tiny and struggling. The nurses and doctors repeat 'failure to thrive', and Sam thinks, not without some anger, and definitely not without pain, that Dean and Castiel don't deserve this._

_They do a battery of tests - whatever's raging through the young body is doing its best to squander life. It's already taken something._

_Sam will never forget the heartbreak on Dean's face when the doctor tells them that the little girl has permanently lost her hearing, and that her sight and speech might follow suit if the fever and the swelling in her brain keeps it up._

_The battle wages for three days, three days during which Sam watches both men slowly unravel and fall apart. He keeps in touch with his own family by phone - they call every day for updates, and the sight of his wife and his two boys crowded around the phone never fails to bring soft warmth to his chest._

_On the fourth day, things look up, and on the fifth the little girl stabilizes. On the sixth she's a miracle case, a true marvel and a true warrior._

_Dean laughs through his tears, says how proud he is of his daughter, that she's a Winchester through and through._

_Cas is more reserved in his relief, and Sam gets the thought that something is not quite right. Dean would have picked up on it right away, had he not been so exhausted, so thoroughly broken down._

_On the seventh day, Dean is fast asleep when something niggles in Sam's mind. It's that sixth sense feeling he usually only ever has for Dean and his boys._

_He notes that Cas is not lying next to Dean, and he pads quietly out of the on-call room they'd been allowed to stay in and makes his way through the halls of the hospital._

_He goes to the neonatal intensive care unit and -_

_Castiel is in a chair next to his daughter's incubator._

_What stops Sam in his tracks is the blade in Cas' hand, resting innocuously on his knee._

_Sam blanches and makes his way into the room slowly, heart pounding wildly inside his chest as his minds whirls in search of an explanation._

_"Cas? What the hell man?"_

_Castiel looks up sharply, eyes red-rimmed and miserable._

_Sam's seen this look before - back in the bunker, after a particular horrific nightmare that left Cas trembling and nauseous, dragging whimpers and pleas from his throat._

_Sam softens his tone and his approach - his brother is hurting, and he needs it to stop._

_"Cas?"_

_Castiel seems to come back to himself. He looks down at the blade in his hand._

_"I-I'm keeping her safe."_

_Castiel's eyes meet his, and there are tears in them, slipping forth uncontrolled._

_"If babies weren't...if there was something wrong with them, physically or mentally or-or...they'd be left outside, to die. Or, or killed. Orphanages wouldn't take them...They were just babies, they hadn't hurt anyone and, and I need...she's already fought so much-"_

_Something inside Sam breaks, and he fights back his own tears now._  
  
_He tries to make his voice steady, and pour as much reassurance and love as he can into his words._  
  
_"It's not like that here, Cas. She's safe. She's got you, and Dean. And me. You know I wouldn't ever let anything happen to her."_  
  
_Castiel nods, immediately, like Sam just stated that the sky is blue - a fact._  
  
_Not for the first time Sam wonders how this man can be so loyal and so trusting after everything he's been through._  
  
_"You almost gave your life for my boys. I'll never forget that."_  
  
_Castiel breaks eye contact then - he's more reticent to accept praise than Dean by spades._  
  
_Sam steps closer, kneels in front of Castiel, his own demonstration of utter trust - Cas could slit his throat if he wanted to, he's seen him do it from a far worse position._  
  
_But those days are long behind them both._  
  
_Now, now Sam rests his hand on Cas', gently prying his fingers from the hilt._  
  
_Castiel lets go slowly, then all at once and Sam takes the weapon and sets it gently on the floor._  
  
_"She's not my blood, nor Dean's, nor yours. But I'd protect her with my life. How does that make any sense?"_  
  
_"You love her."_  
  
_\- a fact._  
  
_"Yes."_

 _\- a fact._  
  
_Sam smiles. Squeezes Castiel's hand._  
  
_"There's nothing more to it than that."_  
  
_Castiel searches his face and Sam will never get over how the man's blue eyes seem so ancient in those moments, powerful enough to lay your soul bare._  
  
_"Her name will be Sam."_  
  
_\- a fact._  
  
_Sam feels his heart speed up again._  
  
_"Your brother?"_  
  
_Castiel shakes his head._  
  
_"Partly, perhaps. But really, after you."_  
  
_A name shouldn't mean that much. Sam's entirely aware that people name their kids after stuff all the time._  
  
_It shouldn't make him feel so warm, so humbled and honored all at once._  
  
_"Dean-"_  
  
_"-Will understand my choice."_  
  
_Again, that stare that digs itself deep, down to his core._  
  
_"You saved me too. She will come to know this, when she's old enough. And she'll know then she's named after the bravest, kindest soul I've ever known."_  
  
_Sam can't hold Castiel's gaze._  
  
_He turns instead to his niece, feels Cas squeeze his hand back._  
  
_When Sam is 35, he looks at his second brother, then at his namesake, and he lets himself be overwhelmed by the surge of fierce love he has for his family, and realizes that whatever damage has been inflicted on his body, his soul remained untainted and untarnished._    

 

* * *

 

When asked later, even years later, Castiel will still say that doesn't fully understand what came over him.  

For a moment, he stands still outside, irresolution and indecision freezing him to the spot. 

Sometimes, when a difficult choice is forced upon him, he prays to Anna's soul. He knows he has no right and knows that overall the whole thing is stupid because Anna is dead and long gone, and if she's up in heaven (where Castiel thinks she is, in the days that he allows himself to believe in such things), then she's not listening to the concerns and plights of sinners down below, and certainly not from him, the man who killed her.  

"Anna. I'm considering disobedience. Tell me what to do. I don't know what to do."  

He runs through this for a while. Thinks of Anna's fearlessness and how she looked her death in the eyes without flinching. 

He thinks of the boys that died suffering but together, thinks of the children in the truck and the countless children before them that did reach their destination. He thinks of all the men and women he's killed, of all the blood on his hands.  

In the end, he makes a decision and calls the police.  

 

* * *

 

“Dean never mentioned a brother.” 

Sam can tell that the deputy chief doesn’t mean for the statement to wound him – she’s been candid since the beginning of their talk, from expressing her surprise at the FBI showing up to letting him know just what Bobby meant by “gruesome.” 

Still, the words leave their mark and she must notice, because she immediately looks away, contrite. 

“We have a… _difficult_ relationship.” 

Mills snorts at that, “All of Dean’s relationships are difficult ones.” 

For all the insult in the words, there’s a fondness in them that catches Sam off guard. 

Mills smiles at him, flipping a picture on her desk to face Sam.

It’s of the whole ( _tiny_ ) department, but Dean is next to Mills, arm around her neck. Both are beaming.

“He’s the best officer to come by in a long time.”

Sam feels a surge of pride at that – he’d always known his brother was a good man. To hear someone else say it was warming. 

“He didn’t have many close friends here, besides Charlie and Bennie. But everyone else still cares for him, especially after all the shit he went through for those kids.” 

Mills turns the photo back around. 

“You can be damn sure we’ll do everything we can to find him.”

 

* * *

 

Peter never makes it to the end of his twisted intentions. 

One moment he's standing above Dean, leering, and the next, Castiel is behind him, yanking him backwards.  

Peter has barely turned around to see who's laid hands on him when Castiel presses his gun to his head and pulls the trigger.  

Dean's brain is short-circuiting – more so when Castiel trains the gun on him. With his free hand, Castiel slips his blade into his hand and makes short work of the ropes binding Dean to the chair.  

Upstairs, Dean hears commotion – people running and cursing and then gunshots. It doesn't take long for his brain to catch up with the sounds and he makes the connection that the police must have arrived, somehow – and this Russian has come to dispose of the evidence.  

Bolstered by hope, Dean moves quickly – he spins around the chair and raises it overhead, muscles tensing and ready to use it as a weapon.  

"Come at me you bastard."  

Castiel looks at him with urgency.  

"I'm not going to hurt you." 

"Yeah, and I'm the fucking queen of England."  

Castiel tilts his head in puzzlement until a particularly loud noise above them startles him into action.  

"We have to leave, now."  

"I'm not going anywhere with you. Make it easy on yourself and just kill me now." 

"Don't you think it a little convenient that you showed up when you did? That someone told you exactly where to find us?" Castiel all but growls and Dean feels a shiver run through him at the implication, and it has nothing to do with the adrenaline shooting through his veins.  

Before he can verbalize a reply, Uriel is running down the stairs.  

"Castiel! We are under attack," he looks at Dean, free, and his expression glooms more, "what are you doing? Kill him and let's be done with it. We can choose another cop later."  

The surprise of it all is that Castiel turns around, exposing his back to Dean – turning his gun and fearsome expression onto Uriel. It's impossible to miss the aggression in the gesture, and the protectiveness. 

For a moment, Uriel gapes and Dean knows his own expression is similar.  

“So. You’ve made a choice.” 

Castiel’s face is stone, voice a low rumble of a growl. 

“Yes. And you had better get out of my way.” 

Uriel and Castiel move forward at the same time and Dean takes his chance, dropping the chair and running to the far wall. 

If he can get around these two idiots and get himself upstairs, he might just make it out of this fucked up situation. 

For whatever reason – misplaced siblinghood perhaps – Castiel hesitates in shooting Uriel. And that’s all the bigger, taller man needs. 

He barrels into the other Russian with impressive strength, knocking the both of them to the ground. 

Dean hears the struggle but doesn’t look – with his back turned, and his frantic race up the stairs, he has no chance to see that Uriel has taken the gun from Castiel, has no way of knowing that the Russian takes aim quickly. 

He makes it to the middle of the staircase when two bullets bury themselves in the wall ahead of him. 

Dean stills, slowly turning. 

“That’s right,” Uriel is slowly coming towards him, gun trained levelly in his right hand while he wipes at the blood streaming from his nose with the other.

Dean’s eyes flick past the advancing mobster to Castiel’s still form on the ground.

Uriel notices and smiles, “He was weak, you know. I suspected his treachery long before this.” 

He motions for Dean to come down, and with no other options, Dean complies, all the while looking for any opening to get close enough and wrest the gun from Uriel’s hand. 

“Don’t feel too badly for him. He would have been killed anyway, once Moscow found out he’s the one that betrayed the shipment in Colorado.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. _No fucking way._  

“You’re the one he called aren’t you? Big, brave Dean Winchester. The ‘righteous man’ that rescued a dozen poor, little children.” 

Dean clenches his jaw, and hatred thrums in his veins – that particular news headline had never sat well with him, but this fucking asshole has no right to bring it up. 

“You know what your headline is gonna be? ‘Gigantic dick found with head removed and gun shoved up his ass.’” 

Uriel growls and his hand twitches on the gun and then there’s a loud crash upstairs – Dean surges forward, catching Uriel’s arm in both of his own as he tries to apply pressure to the Russian’s wrist so that he relaxes his hand. 

They wrestle – more crashes upstairs – and suddenly the cloying smell of smoke starts to permeate the air. 

Dean chances a few seconds and looks behind, up the stairs to the faint wisps of grey that slither under the door and cross the top steps. 

Uriel takes the advantage then, using his bigger frame to push forward, the gun still trapped between them. 

Dean tries to hold his ground – succeeds until Uriel frees an arm, reaching up to Dean’s wounded shoulder before he can properly claim the gun. 

Agony shoots through his body when Uriel squeezes his meaty hand around the still raw wound. 

The gun clatters to the ground but Uriel doesn’t stop – he’s got the upper hand already, shoving Dean back and to the ground – Dean’s head bounces off the concrete floor and for a moment stars shoot through his vision. 

Uriel grabs him by the hair and slams his head down again. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

And – 

Castiel’s blade pierces straight through Uriel’s throat. Blood bubbles from the wound in thick rivulets and Castiel struggles to guide Uriel’s fall so that he doesn’t crush the cop beneath him. 

For his part, Dean’s vision is hazy at best. He can barely make out the two bodies in front of him, the pounding pain building in his head overwhelming everything else. 

Someone is talking to him. 

Someone –

Dean cries out when a hand closes around his right shoulder and suddenly everything sharpens into focus. 

It’s Castiel above him now, his other hand against Dean’s neck, two fingers on his pulse point. 

“Can you walk?” 

The words still sound garbled, but Dean gets the gist of them, especially when the Russian tries to pull him to his feet. 

This wrenches another cry from him but Castiel is persistent, levering his arm around Dean’s waist, draping his arm around his shoulders and locking his knees to push them both up. 

The nausea hits him hard and fast and Castiel barely has time to tip him to the side slightly before Dean blows chunks. 

The taste is bitter in his mouth and it’s getting harder to breathe.

Castiel himself is already coughing, and there’s a limp in his step when he leads them forward, past the fallen chair and into a small hallway. 

Dean wants to fight back, get away – but between one breath and the next his vision blurs again, this time into black.

 

* * *

 

Sam watches the building go up in flames and fear churns heavily in his gut. 

 _God, please –_

The police lights of the many cruisers around him reflect weirdly off of the flames, and the smoke has started to reach their perimeter, even as far away as they had set it. 

He whirls around, unable to watch anymore, and lets anger overtake him. 

The fury must be written into every inch of his tall frame because the other officers step out of his way. 

He doesn’t let up his glower until reaches Mills. 

“What the _hell_? This is how you run an op?” 

The chief turns away from whomever she was talking to. She doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated. 

Rather, she seems annoyed. And that pisses Sam off even more. 

“My brother was in there and _now_ –” 

“Was.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Some of my deputies found an entrance in the back of the building that led straight into the basement – the concrete has protected most of it from being consumed by the flames. There were signs of a struggle – two dead Russians to prove it – but no Dean.” 

Sam runs a hand through his long hair, feeling relief wash over him like a cool breeze. 

It’s then that he realizes how tense Mills is. And her eyes are glistening – the smoke has started to drift closer but not close enough. 

Sam feels like a dick. He softens his tone.

“So, you’re saying Dean fought them off and ran?” 

“Not quite.” 

Mills retrieves an iPad from one of her deputies and hands it to Sam. 

He hits the home button and swipes the screen to see a picture – the clash of the flames and the tablet’s own flash distort the image somewhat, but it’s unmistakable that there are two sets of footprints ground into the dirt, side by side. 

“What’s that tell you, Agent?” 

Sam grits his teeth. 

“Someone’s still got him.”


End file.
